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An electronic music festival in the middle of Aralkum desert, over a thousand kilometres away from the capital Tashkent? This town is best known for its tragic destiny: once located at the southern shore of the Aral Sea and famous for its fish industry, the town is now dozens of kilometres away from the rapidly receding shorelines of the Aral Sea. Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here. Director George Itzhak, 28, who was born in Tashkent but grew up and lives in New York City, was fascinated by the idea of the festival, by the emerging electronic music scene in Tashkent and the connections of techno music and traditional Uzbek folk music. Waiting for the Sea from George Itzhak on Vimeo. What made you want to return to Uzbekistan to make a documentary? George Itzhak: I was born in Tashkent, but when I was about a year and a half old, my entire family left. The Bukharan Jews started to leave Uzbekistan in the s, first slowly, and then much faster after the collapse of the Soviet Union, as they were concerned about a possible religious backlash after the independence of Uzbekistan. America and Israel opened the doors for us, so pretty much all of us left by the mid-nineties. Many of them settled in New York — there are about So, we have a very big diaspora community there. I grew up in New York City speaking Russian at home, observing all the traditions, hearing about Uzbekistan from my grandparents, but we never went there — it just never came up. I travelled to Russia a few times, but I never made it to Central Asia. As I got older, I got married, I had a child, and suddenly something clicked in me, that I wanted to go back before starting this new part of my life. Then I found the story of Stihia and the young electronic music scene in Uzbekistan, which was fascinating to me, and I saw a really good opportunity there. It all started with one image that someone on my Facebook shared: It was a poster of Stihia, and it was the image of a traditional Karakalpak woman in traditional clothing. But it was very stylized, in an electronic music poster kind of way. It was almost like a magical picture: it merged the traditional culture and the way I had been used to seeing Uzbekistan with this very young, futuristic aesthetic. The combination of those two really made an impression on me, I clicked on it and kept diving into this topic and stumbled about all these stories of electronic music in Uzbekistan and Stihia, which had taken place last year. So, I discovered Stihia in the preparations of the second year of the festival. I totally missed the first year! But from then on, I was caught, and I started making calls, got in touch with the festival founders, formulating what this film project could be. We just started sharing images, sharing and finding references in the world of cinema about Central Asia. I had seen some stories on Stihia already, but I wanted it to be something different. I wanted to be immersed and to show my own experience. So, what followed were about three to four months of pre-production, phone calls, interviews with the interview partners shown in the film etc. My main goal before going there was to try to understand the visual language of Uzbekistan. That was the key. I think the view on Uzbekistan from the West and foreigners is very orientalist. It almost feels like looking at animals in the zoo sometimes. I feel like I have a personal responsibility here. How did you experience the electronic music scene in Uzbekistan and especially in Tashkent? There are two parts of the story: Stihia and Moynaq on the one hand, and then there was so much happening in Tashkent. My goal was to join those two straits together. I had never thought about Uzbekistan in the context of electronic music. So, I had this kind of archaic, old view — a view stuck in the past. And when I was in that basement bar in Tashkent, it was like I was thrown into the future. It actually felt very close to New York. I was really surprised to discover how diverse the city is. His work is so influenced by folk music, and I was trying to understand how to cinematically depict music, in a way that had storytelling in mind, a way that was emotionally driven. I guess I saw a potential there to apply that to Uzbekistan. In your documentary you explore the connection between traditional folk music and electronic music. What kind of a connection do you see between the two? This was actually the main concept I wanted to explore. The way I felt listening to Uzbek, Karakalpak, Bukharan folk music was the same way I felt when listening to electronic music. When you put them in a dialogue together, they create this perfect lens through which you can look at Uzbekistan, its past and its future. And you have this other force, on the other side, looking into the future, creating something new. And I really wanted to create a conversation between these two. And frankly, it just happened naturally. Electronic music and ancient folk music, they both sort of speak to God. I know it sounds crazy, but the electronic music artists I talked to, talked about Stihia being their way of reaching out to the god of the Aral, to call for the rain. They themselves called it a shamanic act. And if you look at the history of folk music, it has that same root. There is a connection to something in another world. In the documentary, you also show that not only young people from all over the world, from Central Asia, India and Russia joined the festival, but also locals from Moynaq, elderly people and children. How would you describe the atmosphere at the festival? If you consider Uzbekistan as being isolated, think about how isolated Moynaq is. Just to get there, you have to fly to Nukus and even from Nukus, which is connected to Tashkent, you have to drive three or four hours on terrible desert roads just to get to Moynaq. In many cases, for the first time Stihia was held, many of these locals never heard this kind of music. It must have been revolutionary for them. The only regulations there were came from the officials, from the police. I saw a lot of great moments of interaction there. For example, there was one Australian couple there, teaching these young Karakalpak kids how to dance. That was a beautiful moment. The film makes this point that music like this is universal. You can totally see that the government is trying to make Moynaq more of a destination right now. I think it showed people who live there that they matter in this country. Whenever people came to this place, it was all about how bad this place is. It changes so much to have a positive energy, when people are talking about this place and people come there with the intention of having a good time and are not firstly talking about health issues and economic difficulties and tragedy and ecological disaster. Do you think an event like Stihia can have an impact on the way people perceive or deal with the drying up of the Aral Sea? So many documentaries talk about that already. I kept thinking about this understanding of the god of the sea. This festival was basically a semi-religious act and made this big statement. People might criticise that your documentary shows an idealistic view on Uzbekistan. What would you oppose to this kind of critique? It really does show an idealistic view on Uzbekistan. So, in the colour corrections, we decided to make the colours look more saturated. We used this exaggerated green, for example. I really put my perspective in there. What I noticed from a lot of local or native filmmakers, is that they have another perspective, they face many challenges. So, this film is very much the perspective of an Uzbekistan native who has never lived there. When I edited the film, I often got advice like, you should investigate this aspect and that aspect. I could also have gotten into all the other aspects of Moynaq, the dryness, the sickness of the people there etc. What I am interested in is going back. So, I feel like I get a lot of trust from people in Uzbekistan, so I can go back and make more. I also think I want to go down this folk music path a bit more and dig deeper in it. In general, I am looking forward to working on more documentary projects — but also on fiction. You mentioned that people in Uzbekistan appreciate your work — did you get a chance to screen it there? How does this reward feel? My only expectation was to make something I could show and be proud of. I am hoping for more, to be able to show it to a broader audience. I want to take the film to contemporary art spaces, to galleries and to more festivals, as soon as gatherings can happen again without fear. Many of the festivals that were supposed to happen this spring will happen next spring only. I really want to show the film in the UK, in Germany, in Berlin. I want to show the film where there is a big community of creative people and filmmakers, and I want to open this window to Central Asia. I had planned to show the movie in a festival in Kazakhstan, where the film industry is more developed than in Uzbekistan. But I clearly want to focus on organising something in Uzbekistan. But I want to make sure that not just the young people that go to electronic music parties are there, I want to have a broader audience. Culture and Sports. Our project. Night train to Dushanbe — a travelogue of Uzbek-Tajik relations. Hitting the road: the first female bus drivers in Uzbekistan.

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